David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

The sly little Drasnian moved through the Fair, wreaking havoc as he went. When he could not sell, he bought; when he could not buy, he traded; and when he could not trade, he dredged for gossip and information. Some of the merchants, wiser than their fellows, saw him coming and promptly hid from him. Garion, swept along by the little man’s enthusiasm, began to understand his friend’s fascination with this game where profit was secondary to the satisfaction of besting an opponent.

Silk’s predations were broadly ecumenical. He was willing to deal with anyone. He met them all on their own ground. Tolnedrans, Arends, Chereks, fellow Drasnians, Sendars—all fell before him. By midafternoon he had disposed of all of what he had bought in Camaar. His full purse jingled, and the sack on Garion’s shoulder was still as heavy, but now it contained entirely new merchandise.

Silk, however, was frowning. He walked along bouncing a small, exquisitely blown glass bottle on the palm of his hand. He had traded two ivory-bound books of Wacite verse to a Rivan for the little bottle of perfume. “What’s the trouble?” Garion asked him as they walked back toward Delvor’s pavilions.

“I’m not sure who won,” Silk told him shortly.

“What?”

“I don’t have any idea what this is worth.”

“Why did you take it, then?”

“I didn’t want him to know that I didn’t know its value.”

“Sell it to somebody else.”

“How can I sell it if I don’t know what to ask for it? If I ask too much, nobody’ll talk to me; and if I ask too little, I’ll be laughed out of the Fair.”

Garion started to chuckle.

“I don’t see that it’s all that funny, Garion,” Silk said sensitively. He remained moody and irritable as they entered the pavilion. “Here’s the profit I promised you,” he told Mister Wolf somewhat ungraciously as he poured coins into the old man’s hand.

“What’s bothering you?” Wolf asked, eyeing the little man’s grumpy face.

“Nothing,” Silk replied shortly. Then he glanced over at Aunt Pol, and a broad smile suddenly appeared on his face. He crossed to her and bowed. “My dear Lady Polgara, please accept this trifling memento of my regard for you.” With a flourish he presented the perfume bottle to her.

Aunt Pol’s look was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and suspicion. She took the small bottle and carefully worked out the tightly fitting stopper. Then with a delicate gesture she touched the stopper to the inside of her wrist and raised the wrist to her face to catch the fragrance. “Why, Kheldar,” she exclaimed with delight, “this is a princely gift.”

Silk’s smile turned a bit sickly, and he peered sharply at her, trying to determine if she was serious or not. Then he sighed and went outside, muttering darkly to himself about the duplicity of Rivans.

Delvor returned not long afterward, dropped his striped cloak in one corner and held out his hands to one of the glowing braziers. “As near as I was able to find out, things are quiet between here and Vo Mimbre,” he reported to Mister Wolf, “but five Murgos just rode into the Fair with two dozen Thulls behind them.”

Hettar looked up quickly, his hawk face alert.

Wolf frowned. “Did they come from the north or the south?”

“They claim to have come from Vo Mimbre, but there’s red clay on the Thulls’ boots. I don’t think there’s any clay between here and Vo Mimbre, is there?”

“None,” Mandorallen declared firmly. “The only clay in the region is to the north.”

Wolf nodded. “Get Silk back inside,” he told Barak. Barak went to the tent flap.

“Couldn’t it just be a coincidence?” Durnik wondered.

“I don’t think we want to take that chance,” Wolf answered. “We’ll wait until the Fair settles down for the night and then slip away.”

Silk came back inside, and he and Delvor spoke together briefly.

“It won’t take the Murgos long to find out we’ve been here,” Barak rumbled, tugging thoughtfully at his red beard. “Then we’ll have them dogging our heels every step of the way from here to Vo Mimbre. Wouldn’t it simplify things if Hettar, Mandorallen, and I go pick a fight with them? Five dead Murgos aren’t going to follow anybody.”

Hettar nodded with a certain dreadful eagerness.

“I don’t know if that would set too well with the Tolnedran legionnaires who police the Fair,” Silk drawled. “Policemen seem to worry about unexplained bodies. It upsets their sense of neatness.”

Barak shrugged. “It was a thought.”

“I think I’ve got an idea,” Delvor said, pulling on his cloak again. “They set up their tents near the pavilions of the Nadraks. I’ll go do some business with them.” He started toward the tent flap, then paused. “I don’t know if it means anything,” he told them, “but I found out that the leader is a Murgo named Asharak.”

Garion felt a sudden chill at the mention of the name.

Barak whistled and looked suddenly very grim. “We’re going to have to attend to that one sooner or later, Belgarath,” he declared.

“You know him?” Delvor did not seem very surprised.

“We’ve met a time or two,” Silk replied in an offhand way.

“He’s starting to make a nuisance of himself,” Aunt Pol agreed.

“I’ll get started,” Delvor said.

Garion lifted the tent flap to allow Delvor to leave; but as he glanced outside, he let out a startled gasp and jerked the flap shut again.

“What’s the matter?” Silk asked him.

“I think I just saw Brill out there in the street.”

“Let me see,” Durnik said. His fingers parted the flap slightly, and he and Garion both peered out. A slovenly figure loitered in the muddy street outside. Brill had not changed much since they’d left Faldor’s farm. His tunic and hose were still patched and stained; his face was still unshaven, and his cast eye still gleamed with a kind of unwholesome whiteness.

“It’s Brill, all right,” Durnik confirmed. “He’s close enough for me to smell him.”

Delvor looked at the smith inquiringly.

“Brill bathes irregularly,” Durnik explained. “He’s a fragrant sort of a fellow.”

“May I?” Delvor asked politely. He glanced out over Durnik’s shoulder. “Ah,” he said, “that one. He works for the Nadraks. I thought that was a little strange, but he didn’t seem important, so I didn’t bother to investigate.”

“Durnik,” Wolf said quickly, “step outside for a moment. Make sure he sees you, but don’t let him know that you know he’s there. After he sees you, come back inside. Hurry. We don’t want to let him get away.”

Durnik looked baffled, but he lifted the tent flap and stepped out.

“What are you up to, father?” Aunt Pol asked rather sharply. “Don’t just stand there smirking, old man. That’s very irritating.”

“It’s perfect,” Wolf chortled, rubbing his hands together.

Durnik came back in, his face worried. “He saw me,” he reported. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course,” Wolf replied. “Asharak’s obviously here because of us, and he’s going to be looking all over the Fair for us.”

“Why make it easy for him?” Aunt Pol asked.

“We won’t,” Wolf replied. “Asharak’s used Brill before—in Murgos, remember? He brought Brill down here because Brill would recognize you or me or Durnik or Garion—probably Barak too, and maybe Silk. Is he still out there?”

Garion peered out through the narrow opening. After a moment he saw the unkempt Brill half hidden between two tents across the street. “He’s still there,” he answered.

“We’ll want to keep him there,” Wolf said. “We’ll have to be sure that he doesn’t get bored and go back to report to Asharak that he’s found us.”